Taste of Death, Breath of Life
by bethos
Summary: T'pol saves Trip's life in battle. [spoilers up to "The Xindi"]


Title: Taste of Death, Breath of Life  
Author: Apocalypse  
Fandom: ENT  
Disclaimer: These characters belong not to me, though it grieves my heart greatly, but to Bermaga. Why? Because there is no justice.  
Characters: Trip and T'pol (friendship story)  
Rating: PG (for mild violence)  
Summary: T'pol saves Trip's life in battle in the Expanse.

Spoilers: Up to "The Xindi". 

_Taste of Death, Breath of Life_

Murder tastes like madness.

            To the uninitiated, irrationality is a drug … and overdose is extremely easy, especially for those unused to the regular dosage. Death tastes like madness because there is no way that the emotional overload that floods her brain to feel any other way; self-defense and all the arguments that go with it, all the rational, _logical_ explanations behind what she has just done, scatter away from her conscious mind as she stares down at the deep emerald blood that stains her hands.

            Her own.

            Spilling it was necessary to protect her crewmate in the battle that has just ended.

            That she had to do it, there is no question; that there are casualties in war is indubitable. But despite her reserve, her iron control that she so prides herself on – far from the icy, emotionless perfection of _Kolinahr, but so far above the humans that she works with on a day to day basis that comparison is laughable … despite that, the taste of murder fills her mind, the sickening madness brings her gorge to her throat, and she has to close her eyes and ears and nose to the sound of utter, unforgiving silence, to the scent of death on the air, to the sight of the blood-soaked corpse – mingling the darkness of Xindi blood with the deep green of her own – and that leaves only the pain._

            But she is familiar with pain. It is an old, old enemy; and an enemy she has known so long that it is almost like a friend. She masters it, buries it, ignores it, moves on to the next step.

            But the next step is not so familiar. She has tasted murder before and it nearly drove her mad. But she can't afford the mistakes of her youth to overwhelm her. She must remain at peak efficiency, she must perform her duties more than adequately, and there is no _time_ for madness.

            There is more at hand than a personal crisis. She must deal with this later. She must retain _control_.

            But this does not feel like control, and she feels a rumble of self-loathing – secret, hidden, in the back of her most secret self where no human will ever dare probe – because her mastery of the arts of Surak will never take her as far as Kolinahr and the banishment of irrationality. 

            "You … you saved my life."

            A familiar voice; one that began as an enemy, became an adversary, and now is something like a friend. She turns away from her defeated, dead, enemy, her face shiny with sweat and spattered with the black blood of the Xindi, the green blood from her own veins. Concerns of rank are forgotten for the moment, at least by him.

            Her friend, his face just as awash with sweat, a cut bleeding the sharp red of human blood across his face. The tang of blood and sweat is in the air and the stench of human and the stench of Xindi intermingle to leave her nasal repressors functionally useless … but there is more than discomfort here and she, at least, can ignore _that._

            Besides … the human smell's not so bad, once you get used to it.

            "Indeed, Commander." She had not forgotten rank, has not forgotten duty. She never will, especially not in the casual, haphazard way that he engages in it. But that is part of what makes him who he is; and she respects that in a way that she did not when they first met, just a little over two short years ago.

            She turns away, then, forestalling further conversation, and strides back toward the others – the rest of the landing party.

            Revenge tastes like murder.

            He has found no solace in the deaths of the Xindi soldiers, no solace in the hungry invasion into the depths of the Expanse. He can't help but wonder what Elizabeth would think, were she alive … and that brings another wave of cold anger.

            But the murders taste like dust in the mind. They are empty. They mean nothing.

            They leave him angry and frustrated and cold. He doesn't know where to turn now; he feels separated from his old friend, the captain of his ship; he is building a gulf between himself and his newer friend, the armoury officer; and he takes sympathy from no one. Hoshi, who he secretly regards as another little sister, one like Elizabeth … he associates with her less and less as some part of his mind wishes to distance himself from a brotherly role, for fear that he will lose her, too, and be utterly alone, forever a big brother but with no one to protect: an empty role to go with his empty search for vengeance. And no one else on the ship can he be anywhere near close to; no one else. He is utterly, terribly alone.

            She has just saved his life, but she means nothing by it. It is matter of fact for her. Ending the life of an enemy soldier … what can that mean for a woman whose emotions are buried so deep they can never be found? A frigid goddess, carved of ice, whose blood runs green … 

            A woman with whom he was at first openly hostile, from a race of people who are constantly pulling them down, holding them down, holding them back … ostracized as a Vulcan spy, a fly in their ointment, an unwelcome chaperone on their mission to the stars from the very beginning. But for whom he has developed trust, however grudgingly at first, and respect … and something like friendship. Although they are still adversarial most of the time, they are no longer enemies, and they respect each other for who they are despite their differences in operation method and personality … and what more could he ask for than that?

            They undergo the treatment together with Lieutenant Reed and Corporal Chang – the MACO's are now as stoic as the others about the decontamination chamber as the _Enterprise _crew, although there were some jumpy starts at the beginning, especially with Sergeant Hernandez and her "you want me to do _what with my commanding officer?" … but now the war, the depressing, increasingly hollow war, drags on into something resembling a routine._

            "T'pol," he says.

            She turns, fully dressed again in her striking red uniform, and raises an elegant eyebrow at him. She waits, expectant.

            "Thank you," he says. "For saving my life."

            The other eyebrow arches. "My duty was to do no less, Commander," she says.

            "And that's all?"

            "All?" she repeats, suddenly uncertain as she looks at him – uncertain what he's driving at. But confusion is not an emotion, apparently, or at least not one the Vulcans forswear.

            "Never mind," he says, shaking his head. "I guess I don't want the answer to that."

            "It would be difficult to procure another qualified chief engineer for the _Enterprise under these circumstances, Commander Tucker," she says mildly. _

            "You bet," he agrees, snorting a little. 

            Finally, she relents. "And I find your presence on this ship not disagreeable," she says, too blandly. 

            "So you'd personally be sorry if I kicked it, huh?" 

            "I would regret your death, yes."

            "I guess that's pretty good, for a Vulcan."

            "Your continued prejudice against logic is illogical, Mr. Tucker."

            The game isn't fun anymore. It hasn't been for awhile, really, but it's hard to leave alone … and she is still willing to play with him, even in the midst of all this. But are they playing? When does the game end and the sincerity begin? Perhaps when she says that she would regret his death.

            "I'm glad you're around, too, T'pol," he says.

            There's not really much else to say. But this taste of the old game, the back and forth table-tennis kind of friendship, this sudden flash back to normalcy between the two of them after their joint adventure this afternoon… it's a breath of life. And Trip Tucker realizes that no matter how much he might otherwise feel sometimes out here on this increasingly empty quest for vengeance and justice, he is not alone. 


End file.
